


episodic revisionism

by espritneo



Series: Dumpster Diving for Inspiration [5]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: (Obviously), Ficlet, Gen, Post-Casino Royale, Pre-Skyfall, early 00-career
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:13:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27541363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/espritneo/pseuds/espritneo
Summary: Everyone knows James Bond is never sick (no one knows that’s because 007 is a calculated mask and illness means his defenses are down, means there’s only James)
Relationships: James Bond & Alec Trevelyan, James Bond/Alec Trevelyan
Series: Dumpster Diving for Inspiration [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2007811
Comments: 4
Kudos: 39
Collections: Genuary 2021





	episodic revisionism

It starts on the flight to Peru. Bond’s carefully reading through files on Vladimiro Montesinos, head of the Servicio de Inteligencia Nacional and double dipper into Peru’s illegal drug trade. There’s a tightness in his throat that makes him aware of every sip he takes. He absently signals the flight attendant and requests a half cup of herbal tea with lemon. He dumps the rest of his scotch into the hot water.

The next time a symptom rears its head is when he’s developing an entry strategy into Montesinos’ compound. He’s been undercover for 48 hours, making friends with the guards as an expat gun-for-hire with poor luck learning _chinchon_ and poorer taste in pisco. They grimace at the way he knocks back shot after shot, but they predictably relax the drunker he gets. What they don’t know is that he’s adept at being drunk. If anything, being in an altered state sharpens his paranoia and his reflexes. The alcohol almost drowns out the rising severity of his potential cold and the burn excuses the hacking fits. His _friends_ insult him and hit his back hard enough to dislodge whatever’s growing in his lungs. If he’s lucky, the 190 proof killed the rest.

Not ten hours later, Montesinos is floating in his pool and he’s planted evidence implicating the prime minister. His actions have ensured a power vacuum for His Majesty to poke her nose into, and he’s on the red-eye back to Her triumphant embrace. The flight attendant - devastating blue eyes and red hair in an elegant bun - passes his row unnecessarily the first few hours of the flight. Her attitude vacillates between somewhat perturbed concern over the unnatural flush on his forehead and coy flattery when he quickly manages to redirect the conversation to features he honestly appreciates on her. He’s not feeling so poorly he can’t distract them both with an enthusiastic quickie in the lavatory.

By the time he lands in LCY, his summer weight linen suit is abhorrently damp and he has sweat stains in uncomfortable places. It’s an affront to his navy training and he changes in the first men’s room out the gate. MI6 is buzzing in his ear and he finds the unpredictable bursts of noise irritating, so he flushes the earpiece down the toilet with one foot as he tucks a new shirt in. He abruptly decides _fuck M_ , he’s going home. His ability to remain fit for society is rapidly dwindling.

The rain is more of a mist and it feels good, cooling his forehead and he’s almost tempted to walk. In the end, it’s the promise of a shower, scotch and sheets that turns his heel towards the cabs. Traffic is bearable and he’s home soon enough that he doesn’t regret losing the London rain. 

Bond disarms the security and empties his pockets and luggage out of habit, his go bag the only item remaining unpacked and tucked next to his shoes. He pours himself four fingers so he doesn’t have to get up again and sits on the leather couch with little sigh, his back bending a few degrees more than he’d allow in public.

\---

“Jamesy.” James startles awake and automatically settles at a rough touch soothing over his forehead and hair. Sleep and scotch muddle his awareness and narrow his decision making down to basic threat-assessment. He's tired and sick enough now that there’s no room for 007. “Shhh, James. It’s Alec.”

The couch depresses, he droops sideways into a wall of muscle and bone that shifts him to accommodate Alec’s bulk. He only makes a faint sound of protest when Alec helps himself to James’ drink. 

He didn’t wake when Alec arrived and he’s not concerned. He knows Alec like the weight of his ankle gun, the heft of his fixed blade; they’ve been a part of each other’s arsenal for a decade. Alec is safe when James is not at his best. Only Alec knows James’ instincts don’t always align with 007’s. 

“Why are you here?”

“I checked in while you were still in Peru. I could tell you were getting peaky, but Christ, James, you’re burning up.” Another hand, applying firm pressure over the back of his neck and down to his tailbone, casually possessive. “Let’s get you in the bath.”

James isn’t sure if his refusal was audible, but bath meant no Alec because Alec was not a fan of lounging in cold water. And he just wants this for the foreseeable future: a steady heartbeat near his ear, a warm body to ground him against the moving earth, a hand stroking his spine to settle his cough.

He falls back asleep.

 _And fuck Alec Trevelyan_ because James comes to shivering in ice cold water. 

“You asshole.” His teeth chatter and he’s soundly ignored while Alec takes his temperature - ear, 006 isn’t an idiot and he’s not giving James a chance to bite him - so he tries to escape.

Alec doesn’t give him the satisfaction of a tussle and tumble: the older man grips as much of James’ shoulder as he can and figuratively sits on him until he stops thrashing.

“You could be a sweetheart and keep me company in here.”

“Not on your life, mate,” Alec scoffs. “My willy’d shrink and we both know that’s my best feature.”

“Well it’s certainly not your bedside manner,” James grumps, defeated. He won’t be able to move for awhile and he’s actually craving something hot for his throat, so he kicks Alec out to put on the kettle.

\---

Neither of them are the type to apologize for actions they deem necessary. But when he’s finally dry and on top of the covers, Alec strips and James forgives him for being a mother hen. He makes himself, draping his limbs all over the older man and rubbing a bit languidly in delight over having a human being underneath that he isn’t going to crush with his body weight. Alec isn’t soft by any means, but he’s warm and he’s alive and safe and James is distracted by the elasticity of living creatures. He’s obsessed over the differences in texture between unmarked and scarred areas and the coziness of having his face tucked between Alec’s neck and the pillow. The difference in their temperature takes up his attention for some time, until Alec warms up from having James’ forehead rubbing against his skin.

Alec used to remark on his weird fascination; he hasn’t done that in recent years and James doesn’t give a fuck either way, but the easiest explanation is that the Russian-born Brit finally gets that James just likes analyzing bodies, all human bodies. He can pick out the spot he needs at a glance, whether it’s to incapacitate or kill or entice. He doesn’t think about it. His motive has already determined the outcome and he never enters a situation without an agenda.

Well, Bond doesn’t. James very much likes not needing a reason to touch. He's a hedonist by nature, he enjoys indulging in sensations that activate his nerve endings and send pleasant sparks tingling under and over his skin. 

\---

He may have passed out again because the next time he opens his eyes, he’s freezing, his nose is running like a broken faucet, sandpaper is rubbing against his tear ducts and Alec is nowhere to be found. James goes through half a box of tissues, pulls his duvet over his head and grimly tries to be asleep until he stops leaking. He’s not fit for company and he’s not interested in being a human being.

Alec mostly leaves him alone, minus check-ins every four hours to keep him drugged, fed and watered. He really only needs the bare minimum to recover. His constitution is incapable of staying suppressed, rarely inviting sickness and kicking out illness as fast as humanly possible. He can mostly breathe and sit up with the barest ache after 18 hours, and while his sinuses annoyingly continue to drain down his throat, he doesn’t feel like a lump of sweat and snot. He can sit on the couch and read while Alec watches football or works on his laptop. This is the final stretch. In the morning, he’ll wear a suit, report to MI6, endure Tanner’s disappointment for failing to check in, and get dressed down in M’s office for neglecting to submit a written or oral report on Peru. The ladies at -6 will show their appreciation and he might find someone to take home. Alec might be interested in joining while he’s in town. If not, maybe Alec will be interested in just him and that’s fine, too. 

MI6 will marvel that he made it through a mission without getting injured.

Importantly, as far as MI6 is concerned, he _might have_ almost gotten sick in Peru, but he was never anything less than hale and hearty. 

James Bond doesn’t get sick.

**Author's Note:**

> I just wanted to meet canon!James.


End file.
